“We are trying to save,” I whispered, rubbing my ring.
“My business expenses are what keep this roof over your head,” he said, taking the statement from the desk and sliding it into his drawer.
He shut the drawer with a firm, decisive click that ended the conversation.
I walked up the stairs to our bedroom, my feet heavy on the carpeted steps, the image of the Bistro charge still burned into my mind.
By eleven, Richard was asleep, his chest rising and falling in a slow, rhythmic pattern under the heavy duvet. The room was dark except for the streetlamp outside casting the shadow of the maple tree across the wall.
I picked up his grey wool coat from the armchair to hang it in the closet before the wool gathered lint.
As I lifted the heavy hanger, a small strip of thin paper slipped from the inner pocket and fluttered down onto the rug.
I knelt down and picked it up, my thumb brushing against the glossy thermal paper.
